


Watching William

by rosncrntz



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Emma Portman is too good for us all, Emma's pov, F/M, History, Longing, One-Shot, Post 2x03, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 19:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12327735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosncrntz/pseuds/rosncrntz
Summary: Emma Portman has known William Lamb since she was a young woman, only a girl. And, since then, she has watched him constantly - longing for his heart. And, in her observations, she has watched him fall in love, four times.





	Watching William

When she first observed William falling in love, she was filled with a grief that came so easily to a young lady such as herself. She had been a pretty-rosy girl then; barely a woman, wearing white muslin and gazing fondly at the growing femininity of her figure in a looking glass – a sweep of white skin, a fullness to her breast and hip. She pinched her cheeks into flushing, and curled her hair into ringlets and braids, labouring like Hercules all the time to make herself look prettier and sweeter. And in all she would be pining for a second look from _him_. She had met him years ago: only girl and boy then, really. And she had fallen quite irretrievably in love with a good heart and a gentle soul. He was intellectual, intelligent, but warm and funny. He was quite the perfect gentleman. She was more than smitten: she was in love. First love. The most giddying, the most wonderous, the most agonising. Born in the light of youth, and a thousand summer’s evenings, against the chirping crickets and the wail of violins.

Caroline Ponsonby – however – spoke louder, laughed more often, stared more bewitchingly, and danced more spiritedly, than poor, young Emma Lascelles (as she was then). She had thought of faces as candles in those days. Some are brighter, some are prone to flickering emotions, some dwindle and some are condemned to perpetual steadiness. Caroline’s face was a bright candle in a strong draft. Emma’s face was dimmer, being so often in the shade of the leaves of a book, or ducked down in the shadow of a bonnet to look at the daisies around her feet. Caro had no time for daisies, little care for labouring over books when she could have poetry read to her. And her white muslin was thinner, more daring, more courageous. Her figure had sharper edges and corners that Emma thought most unbecoming of a young woman – but it was clear William Lamb did not agree with her. 

“She is quite magnificent, isn’t she?” he had said, once, in passing. Emma hardly gave this comment a second though – at the time – for it was a high day in July, and the weather was exceedingly warm and bothersome, and he had said it so languidly that it did not seem to warrant analysis or concern. So, she smiled dimly, turning to her young love, and replied,

“Quite lovely.”

He must have taken this to heart.

The first she truly observed of it was a laugh. He did not take to laughing often – though he was good-humoured and fair in all other things. His laughs were scarce. It was at a dinner, and Caroline had said something which made Emma blush and shift in her seat. Emma’s gaze had darted from her mother, to her father, to William, and then stopped. Inside, Emma was on fire: Caroline Ponsonby had said something so inappropriate! At such a young age! But she was not reprimanded for her actions, but indulged, as William gave a soft chuckle. Emma felt her stomach seize. He had never chuckled in such a way at anything Emma had said; though she had tried so hard to amuse him, making comments and jokes, at no one’s expense. For she could not bear unkindness – such unkindness that Caroline seemed to enjoy. Caroline seemed proud of herself, and Emma silently turned her eyes down to her soup, and ate in quiet silence.

Later that evening, she had been commanded back into the room by a hoarse cry,

“Give us a song, Emma!”

She did not want to sing whilst William chatted with Caroline so animatedly. She did not want to sing at all in their company. She thought she would buckle and break: to sing, and watch the faces of Caroline Ponsonby and William Lamb as they observed her melody, judged it, and waited patiently for her to finish, so they could resume their precious conversation.

But, always thinking of others, Emma agreed. She sang a tune, in small voice. William watched her: and something awful in his gaze, something wickedly enrapturing, looked at her with affection. She thought, for a brief moment, that perhaps he had changed his mind. Perhaps he would choose her. But then her eyes fell on Caroline, and her awful, shrewish eyes, wide and glazed. Teasingly intelligent.

And, as William turned to Caroline once again, as her tune was coming to an end, his look was undeniable. He had fallen for her fire and her knots and the way she spoke loudly and without shame. He was in love.

She cried, and cried, and cried that night, tucked up in her bed, in her nightgown, stifling her sobs in the folds of her pillow lest someone should hear her. Her heart ached for William. But William had taken his heart, folded it neatly, and handed it to Caroline Ponsonby, with all the best wishes in the world.

Then came the proposal. Then came the marriage. The children. The affair. And, amongst all, Emma observed and stayed strong and silent. She was there when William needed her. She became a confidante. Impartial, or – at least – that is what William believed. He would rage in her company. He would _burn_. He was not afraid to be angry in her company: blaming the entire world on his misfortunes. He never blamed Caroline. That was what wounded Emma the most. Though it was obvious that she was the perpetrator in his sufferings, he would never admit to it.

Emma took care of Augustus. Caroline was so often away, so often sick, so often depressive, that she could not be a real mother to the poor boy. So Emma took the burden. William hardly had time to thank her. His career was piling up on his shoulders, and he was sinking with the pressure of it. And, when he wasn’t working, he was at Caroline’s bedside. She became very ill very quickly. Emma got a look at her, very briefly, towards the end. She was nothing but bones. Her naughty look had quite evaporated, and the spirit that had so bewitched William had flown away from her. Augustus was afraid. Emma soothed him, stroking his blonde hair back from his forehead, whispering in his ear.

“Everything will be alright, darling. Don’t worry. Shh. Don’t cry.”

As if he were her own child.

But Emma herself was married by now. Of course. Everyone must marry. Every woman must marry. She _liked_ her husband and that was enough. He was not cruel or tiresome. But he ignited no fire in her soul, as William had done. But, of course, every woman must marry. And she had spawned six children of her own. They had forced their way out of her. With every one, Emma felt she lost a little bit of herself. The pretty-rosy girl that had fallen in love with William Lamb was blown back by the wind, lost in time and effort. But her children were strong and she loved the, dearly. William met them. She loved to see William with her children. She indulged herself in the brief fantasy that they were his. They could almost have been. Caroline had passed away, and William was quite alone and – though that grieved her – she was delighted that he came to visit her more often.

But that did not last long. Emma observed William Lamb fall in love for a second time.

Caroline Norton. Perhaps he only gave his heart to ladies named Caroline: Emma had joked, to soothe the pain in her bosom. At least Caroline Norton was a friend, and a decent lady – unlike Ponsonby, who had been a disaster. No, Caroline Norton was an entirely appropriate choice for a love affair, except for one small, minor detail. She was already married.

“Oh, William!” she had cried, when she became privy to the information. William had spouted some waffle about enjoying her company and finding her charming when, in reality, Emma knew quite well that William was lonely. He clearly enjoyed the attention. He must have enjoyed the sex. That must have flattered him – at his age. To have someone dote on him. Or be dependent on him. On his body. Norton was a good woman, but not one for falling in love willy-nilly, and neither was William. Falling in love was a strange word for it, Emma thought: falling in lust was more appropriate.

They did like each other, certainly, however. Emma would not have ached nearly so much if it had been a mere bodily connection. If it was a quick and blinding rush for release, for satisfaction, over quickly and brushed away. She had never envied his whores. This was different. This was more. That was what hurt Emma. They were seen together often, and they flirted. They would speak foolish things. They would whisper to each other, and Emma would strain to hear but she would only hear whistles and giggles. She longed to hear it. They had secret information, knowledge, and the core of her yearned to know of it. It was immature, she knew, to want it so much, but there is something undeniable in the human psyche which is irrational. Emma knew it was silly to allow herself to be jealous, at her age, but she could not help it.

If William was so in need of a ‘criminal conversation’, why couldn’t he have picked her?

But, of course he couldn’t. If he wanted some harmless flirtation and a woman to bed, he could not have picked Emma Portman. For there were too many strings attached to Emma Portman. They had too much history. There were too many buried feelings. To sleep together would uncover them. To uncover them would be to cause inconvenience. To cause inconvenience would contradict the action in the first place. William needed someone to relieve stress, to make him forget.

Emma could never have done that for him.

Then came the court case, the scandal, the fire licking at his heels. She had become a confidante in that, too, of course. William’s soul and hers were inexplicably linked, tethered together by silver thread, and yet Emma wanted more. The affair with Caroline Norton was forced to come to an end with the crack of a gavel and the cry of an angry husband, and William was alone again.

Maybe now, Emma thought, vainly. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day.

But it didn’t come, and Emma tried to forget and grow.

Losing his boy, his dear Augustus, threatened to shatter them both. She had been there of course, and offered him a shoulder to cry on, but he did not cry. He was so awfully, horribly, unnaturally brave. She offered him a hand to hold though he did not take it. Or could not. She was there, though, and her friendly face was enough. Oh, how he grieved. He cursed the sky which had taken him away. He held the lock of the boy’s hair in trembling hands, and brushed it, as if he were still there: running his hands through it - only to comfort - as his son fell asleep. She though he would break. Crack. Fall apart.

But he mended himself, alone.

The third time Emma Portman observed William falling in love, she had age enough and sense enough to be glad. If she were ever to inhabit a space in the elder man’s heart, she would have done so in her rosier days, her younger days, when the white muslin pooled at her slippers. No, she was perfectly happy to see him fall in love again. And what a woman his heart picked! Typical of him, she thought, fondly, to have his soul drawn to a woman of such fire, even if she was the Queen. The heart and soul had no thought for status, crowns, or trinkets.

Resigned, she took amusement in perceiving the way they talked and laughed. She had not seen William so truly happy in so long. Though the feeling was bittersweet: sweet in their fondness, but bitter in their impossibility. This hadn’t the destructive zeal of Caroline Ponsonby. This hadn’t the lustful release of Caroline Norton. This was sweet and pure and joyful: and yet, tragically, doomed to fail as all the others were. She teased him about it, of course. If she did not, she would weep at it. But William took all of her mocking with a slow, sad smile. He was feeling; feeling immensely. Emma watched his heart swell and break and revive, like a tide on the shore.

They talked of everything. It was healthy for William, to have such unaffected company. Someone good-hearted and untainted by this wicked world which he had grown tired of. She had no reason to lie to him, no reason to deceive. Any flirtation she gave way to was accidental and charming, not the alluring drawl of Ms Norton. She was dependent on him, which flattered him in a way, but he treated her nobly. He admired her, more than anything else. He saw her as a great monarch. He was honoured to be in her company. And that honour became love. As unaffected as she was. They went riding together. William looked healthy, as he had done when he was a much younger man. He drank and joked as he hadn't done for years. He had such a witty sense of humour. Emma had missed it tremendously, and Victoria delighted in it - assuming that it had always been there. William enjoyed talking to her of little things, little things that made him happy. He would teach her about rooks. There was no reason for her to learn of rooks: it would not help her command an army, or lead her country. But he enjoyed it nonetheless, and was quite insistent on telling her of them, as they sat beside the window together, in the afternoon. Their window conversations were some of the most delightful to watch. The way the light brushed their faces, lit up their smiles. They were never more relaxed, never more at home. He would talk of fashions. Of his distrust of the colour blue on women (an opinion that had always confused Emma considerably). But he was not the only one to talk, to teach. She would talk for hours and hours, of her opinions, and ask for his. He would listen to her. Entirely absorbed in her words and the beautiful voice which uttered them. He was interested in what she thought. He was interested in her mind.

They went for walks. She painted. She would even paint him. And he would compliment her on her watercolours. He stroked her dogs and talked to her parrots. He was happy. Simply.

She wished she could heal him. She would have done anything to protect him from what would shatter him.

Victoria met Albert. A perfect match. And William’s heart broke at this. Again. The doomed object of his heart’s affections. Even after all this time, he seemed to hurt no less. He cried to her. For the first time in it all, in all his long life, he allowed himself to break down before her. Shaking, sobbing, he crumpled in the armchair and cried, and cried, and cried, as she had done, that day when she discovered that her heart’s dearest love was lost to her.

But he hadn’t a pillow to bury himself in. He hadn’t the time to use for healing. So, he let himself weep, openly, before her.

“Flesh and blood cannot stand this,” he cried, gripping one of her letters, scattered in her handwriting, between two pale, trembling hands. He was ill. She knew that, though he did not.

Flesh and blood. That was all he was. Though he seemed so much more to her.

If flesh and blood could not stand this, Emma – composed of flesh and blood just as he was – should have died as a young woman.

He found out he was ill. Emma throbbed. Her whole body seemed to throb. She was numb for days, weeks, perhaps. She thought of nothing but him. She could not think of anything else. She waited every single day to hear from him, and visited him whenever she had the chance. He would always sound so empty. As if a part of his soul, a part of his spirit, a crucial part of his life, had been left at the palace, and he was now bereft of what had made him sparkle. He was pale, too. He had never looked so old. That young man, so lively and kind and good and handsome, young in the face with hardly an imperfection, with flushed cheeks and a healthy glow from a horse-ride, with glossy hair, and hopeful eyes – where had he gone now? He had faded a little: like a candle. He had not grown unhandsome, not at all.

He was everything to her. That face, no matter how ill or how old, had guided her through her entire life. She had spent almost every day watching it. It was as familiar to her as her own, as her mother’s or her father’s, or as her own child’s. Dearer to her than her husband’s. When Caroline Ponsonby had fawned over him, shrieking with laughter, Emma had watched his face blush and chuckle. When Caroline Norton flashed him a salacious look in the middle of a ballroom, Emma had watched his face erupt in a smirk. When Queen Victoria had come to him for help and guidance, Emma had watched as his face warmed, and softened, and eased into the calmest look of adoration.

Emma had always been there. Always looking. But he had never looked back.

He hadn’t much time left. That was what the doctors feared. The Queen had allowed her time. She had not told her the truth of who she was going to see. She did not want the Queen to fear. But she went straight to Brocket Hall. To care for her friend, her dearest friend. She owed him that, after all this time. However much she had wished for him to love her. She could not abandon him now simply because he had never requited her.

“Does the Queen know you are here?” he asked. So hollow, still, but more tranquil now. He was happy to be at Brocket Hall: Emma knew that. Retirement – however long it may last – would suit him.

“No.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That I am taking care of my sister.”

“And she believed that?” he asked, meekly, as Emma stirred his tincture.

“Yes,” Emma replied, quite simply. She was not at all sure of this – but she wished to ease William’s mind. He sat back in his chair.

“It is very good of you, Emma. You needn’t stay with me.”

“Nonsense!” she cried, handing him the glass, and watching as he drank it. “I will stay by your side until you are better, William.” At this, the corner of his mouth curled, and he chuckled, coughing a little from the bitter taste of the tincture.

“You may be here for some time, then, Emma.”

“So be it.”

William, whose gaze had been far-off, suddenly turned towards Emma, and focused on her. He had looked very vague, but now his mind seemed to clear, and he appeared to have been drawn back down to the world.

How green her eyes looked in the light, William thought. He had never noticed quite how green her eyes were before.

Then a hand on his. He felt it, soft and a little cold, pressing into the back of his palm. He glanced down. It was Emma’s hand. It made his heart melt, and a soft glow warmed his chest, creeping up his neck, and colouring his face. Emma saw this. So stark against the pallor is his illness. William took a long breath. It hurt in his throat.

“You have been so patient, Emma…”

She assumed he was talking of his illness.

“No, William, take all the time you need. I am in no-“

“No,” William said, delicately, silencing her. “It’s not that.” Emma was about to speak. To ask him: what is it? What is it, William? What is it, my darling? But she did not have the strength to speak. Were there tears in his eyes? “Have you waited all this time?” he asked, sighing. He could not look at her. Something in his look was remorseful.

“Waited for what?” she asked, smiling, tightening her grip on his hand.

“I think you know what for.”

For him. Yes. She had. She had waited her entire life for him. Every single day. Since her pretty-rosy days when she looked at daisies. Since her song. Since his marriage. Since her marriage. Since the birds of her children. Since his divorce. Since the day he cried in front of her. Since he met the Queen. Since he became ill. Every single moment since then, she had been waiting.

One more day. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day.

“Yes.”

He lifted her hand. His grip was weaker than it had been, but he seemed to be regaining some strength. His eyes were so green. And his lips were so soft. Oh, what bliss! He kissed her hand. To feel them, for the first time, after so long! After so much waiting! She had imagined the feel of them, so often, in the dead of so many sleepless nights, but they were more heavenly than she could even have imagined. Her breath quivered in her breast. She did not think she would ever feel this way again: not this _rapture_.

He let her hand fall from his mouth, but he did not let go of it. There was a dense silence, filled only with the trembling of their mingled breath. He looked at her, and Emma thought – for the fourth time – she had seen him fall in love.

**Author's Note:**

> I adore the relationship between William and Emma and, seeing as she's been missing from the series for the past few episodes, I can't help but imagine her and William and having a blissful time at Brocket Hall! I want to write more for this ship - as (other than Vicbourne) they really are my favourites, and I definitely want to explore what could be happening post-2x03. So, let me know what you think!


End file.
